


Leave Me Your Stardust

by emynii, ObliObla



Series: Nia & Obli's Whumptober 2019 [20]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Post-Season/Series 04, Violence, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 23:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynii/pseuds/emynii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: They took his Mazikeen, and now the only thing on his mind is vengeance.For the Whumptober prompt: tremblingFor the Lucifer Bingo prompt: Raise Hell





	Leave Me Your Stardust

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings are in the end notes.
> 
> This is a little late, but don't worry, we're dedicated to filling every prompt!

Lucifer sat in Lux, fingers trailing over piano keys as he drifted between songs, joyful one moment, maudlin the next. Lux had long since closed, but he was still playing, still thinking. He had settled the rebellions in Hell—at least for now—and was finally happy. He  _ was. _ But contentment had never sat easily, and he found himself troubled, awaiting the ruin that always seemed to come whenever things were going a bit too well.

Things with the detective were good,  _ great _ even. She was with her offspring this particular weekend, and, while they certainly hadn’t  _ moved in together, _ she graced his bed and he graced hers more often than not. Hell had left its marks upon him, as it always did, but he’d been working with Linda, even talking to Amenadiel. And he and Mazikeen had settled into a new sort of pattern that, while not  _ comfortable, _ was far from contentious.

Eve still hadn’t come back.

The door slammed open behind him, and he stopped playing, reaching for his glass of whiskey, taking a sip. "Ah, Mazikeen,” he said, not bothering to turn around. “I was just thinking about you."

But she didn’t respond, didn’t join him at the piano, didn’t go to the bar to pour herself a drink. He inhaled sharply; there was blood in the air. It wasn’t unusual, but she still wasn’t talking. He stood up, turned. “Mazikeen, what are you—?”

The words caught in his throat. She was standing in the middle of the room, hand pressed tight to her side. When he met her eyes, she reached out. Her fingertips were covered in blood. She blinked, and started to fall.

He vaguely heard his glass shatter where he’d dropped it as he rushed to her, catching her before she hit the ground.

“Mazikeen!”

She tried to speak but only coughed, red stippling her lips.

“No, no…” He grabbed her hand, and she clung back fiercely, but she was weakening and they both knew it. Her face was covered with bruises, scratches lined her arms and tore into her vest, and the wound in her side was too far deep. With the last of her breath she gasped, and torn, sinewy flesh crawled up the side of her face.

She held his gaze until the light—the night untempered—left her eyes. And she was still, but not as a predator lying in wait for its prey. No, a limp, soft stillness that was essentially  _ wrong. _

And there had not been such silence since before the universe was brought into form, since before Father had said,  _ Let there be light, _ and he had strung up the stars, faith thrumming in his heart.

Faith was gone, now, and more besides. He had not been so alone for centuries, and something was shattering within him. He sat there against the cold stone floor, staring at her brow, her cheek, her lips—at the ghost of every expression he’d ever seen upon her face. They all ached, hidden away somewhere under his ribs, and an echo of rage responded in kind, fanning the flames in his heart into a deep and steady wrath. Mourning could wait, and so could, as Mazikeen might have called them, all the other pesky human emotions.They took her from him; the only thing he could allow himself to feel was vengeance. He laid her on the ground, carefully, before glancing up at the door that still hung open. 

He would not let these miscreants get away.

The visible trail was lost when he stepped out into the alley, but the tang of iron and salt was sharp in the air, and he followed it without difficulty. It was easier, having a clear goal in mind, not to think, not to  _ feel. _ Slipping through alleyways, marking his steady paces on the asphalt, an echo of an ancient joy arose, clawing its way out of the vast gulf of grief he refused to properly consider.

There was always something like glee in the hunt.

He caught the sound of wounded humans and hastened his steps, turning a corner to find two men lying on the ground, one with one of Maze’s blades embedded in his forehead, the other moaning in pain, clutching at a gaping wound in his side, the other knife lying on the ground next to him.

_ That’s my Maze, _ he thought, but it only left him feeling hollow.

Even as he watched the still living human began to buck, eyes rolling up into his head. “Oh, no, no, no,” Lucifer whispered, kneeling beside him, grabbing him by the stained shirtfront and lifting him up. “Not yet.”

The man’s soul was slowly leaking from him, swirling  _ down _ to his punishment, and Lucifer sent out his will, gripping at the tendrils of tarnished light and pressing them back into the human’s form.

The man coughed, blood flecking his mouth. “Help,  _ please _ help,” he rasped, voice weak.

_ “Help?” _ Lucifer felt his eyes burn red and did nothing to dissuade them, pinning the man with his gaze. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“I...I—”

“You  _ killed _ her,” he said roughly. “No Heaven, no Hell, just  _ gone.” _

“M’sorry,” the man mumbled, clearly delirious with pain. Lucifer yanked tighter at his soul, providing enough clarity to keep him coherent, for the moment.

“Who else?”

The man blinked sluggishly. “What?”

“Was it just you and your…?” He knew every language ever developed and had no epithet strong enough for the dead man lying on the asphalt.

“I don’t…”

_ “Tell me.” _ He didn’t often call on his power like this, to command more than compel. But for Mazikeen… he didn’t hesitate for a second.

“No,” the man breathed, eyes wide.

“The name.”

“J-jack,” he mumbled. “And... the others…” But Lucifer lost his grip on the soul, and he fell silent. It sank through the metaphysical ground, and the body went slack.

Lucifer dropped it to the dirty alley and rose. There had been at least five attackers, then. A grin was tearing its way across his face even as he retrieved the knives, but when he held their weight in his hands, the tips still lethargically dripping red, the agony he’d been pressing down ripped into him.

They were Mazikeen’s blades. They may have been crafted from his feathers but they were  _ hers, _ and they always would be.

Even if—

He inhaled sharply, wiped them roughly on one of the humans’ shirts, and stowed them away. He would not need them; he  _ would _ return them to her. He checked their pockets, found their identification, and stood back up, a smile that was more predator’s grimace than human expression firmly returned to his face.

He had their names, now, and he had the name of one of their compatriots. Nothing in Heaven, on Earth, or in Hell would stop him from finding them and ending their miserable existences.

And he knew just where to start. 

* * *

The precinct was populated only by the meager nightshift when Lucifer arrived, slamming the doors open with an inelegant flick of his wrist and what he knew was a palpable aura of menace he normally suppressed. He barely noticed a handful of unis step hurriedly back as he bypassed the bullpen, heading directly for the records room. The door was locked but it was no matter; he didn’t even bother unfastening the mechanism, simply pressing the door open, unheeding of the metallic  _ snap. _

All his finesse, his grace was gone from him. But he didn’t care.

None of  _ that  _ had saved her.

Someone was talking,  _ yelling, _ possibly, and he fixed his still burning gaze on the source, a clerk he didn’t recognize, working late into the night. He grabbed them by the collar and pushed them into the chair in front of a computer. 

“Mazikeen. Pull up her records.”

“W-what?”

“Mazikeen  _ Smith,” _ he repeated, the tenuous edge of his control teetering. “Bounty hunter. I need a list of her bounties.”

The man blinked. “I can’t just—”

_ “Now.” _

As the man’s shaking fingers scrambled at the keys, as concerned sounds emanated from the rest of the precinct, some part of Lucifer registered that he may well be compromising his position here. His position  _ with the detective. _ And there was an ache there, numbered alongside the others, persistent beneath his ribs. But it wasn’t half as sharp as the agony of grief, as the overwhelming desire—nay,  _ need _ —for revenge. For punishment.

For something to fill the chasm growing in his chest.

He gave the clerk the names, seeking any link, however tenuous. Seeking  _ Jack _ and his fellows, though if this didn’t pan out he was entirely prepared to retrieve a phone book and start on the A’s.

But the clerk found the names, a group who had run together, including the dead men—he didn’t bother mentioning their deceased status—and the mysterious Jack.

Three names. An address.

Three souls he’d gladly drag to Hell personally if he had to, picking up his long forgotten mantle as custodian of his Father’s mistakes and forcing the gall down their throats.

_ Yes, _ he would enjoy this. Though the pain trembled in his veins, creeping in his nerves, more excruciating than any mortal knife or bullet, he had borne worse. He  _ would _ bear worse.

For her.

When he returned to his car, pushing past yet more humans and all their pointless  _ questions, _ he realized he’d received a voicemail.

_ The detective. _

And though he knew he wouldn’t let her words change his mind, he couldn’t help listening to the message as he pulled out of the parking lot.

_ Lucifer? Lucifer, Aaronson called me. She said you showed up at the precinct. That you were covered in blood, breaking things, asking about Maze. What happened? Is-is she…? _

She took a deep breath, fuzzing out the recording for a moment before continuing.

_ Whatever happened, we can deal with it. Together. There’s a process. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things. I know you believe that. So whatever it is that you’re planning on doing… _

She hissed, concern bleeding through her voice.

_ Lucifer, please. Please, just call me.  _

He let the phone fall to the passenger’s seat as he merged onto the 5. The detective was right. There was good; there was evil. There was right and wrong. But nothing felt so right as punishing these reprehensible malfeasants. He had felt guilt, after Tiernan, guilt for consequences he had never intended. And he might feel guilt for this, when it was all over. But it wasn’t going to stop him. He wouldn’t  _ let _ it stop him.

It was worth it. Mazikeen was more than worth the tarnishing of his soul.

Besides, she’d have done it for him.

* * *

This ‘biker gang’, which they insisted on calling themselves despite the fact that they only seemed to have the five members, went by the moniker  _ Hell’s Rejects. _

Lucifer was sure they would appreciate the irony.  _ Soon. _

Their clubhouse, as it were, was little more than the residence of the leader, one Jack Dawson, petty thief and multiple-assaulter, of Rosemead out on the 10. Lucifer pulled up outside the depressingly ugly building, scowling. Sorrow had been gladly relinquished for rage again on the way to the murderers’ soon-to-be gallows, and he’d left indentations on the steel steering wheel of the corvette. He surveyed his surroundings.

How dare such unworthy foes fell his Mazikeen, the finest torturer of Hell, who had defeated untold legions of beasts and demons, who had danced in the ashes of failed infernal rebellions?

He realized he had a second message, as he threw the door open. From Linda, this time. He brought the phone to his ear by instinct, though something was fracturing under his steady demeanor. Her breathing was shaky, and all his weakness was reflected back in her own.

_ Lucifer… Chloe just called. She went to the precinct and… Maze, is she really…? _

He heard her bite back a sob. Pain reverberated through him. She inhaled roughly, continuing with a more even, though still panicked, tone.

_ Don't...don’t do anything rash. Please, please talk to me. _

She sniffed.

_ You’re not alone. _

But wasn’t he?

Hadn’t Mazikeen always been the only one to have his back? He lost himself to memory—finding her in the wastelands, offering her his hand. The physical comfort they had offered each other when it was all either knew. Innumerable times she had tended to his wounds; a few where he had done the same for her. All the times he had dismissed her so easily. They may have made their peace, but certain things were forgiven rather than forgotten.

They cut under his skin like knives, now, but wrath burned so much more purely, warming him from the inside, driving him out of the car and to the door. They would pay, soon, in fire and brimstone and blood. And when their punishment had been brought...

He couldn’t let himself think about that.

He didn’t break down the door as he had at the precinct, instead reaching out to the lock mechanism, disabling it, turning the knob. Los Angeles was too large a place to allow there to be a chase. He couldn’t afford the possibility that they might get away.

“Fuck, that bitch got you good,” a man whose accent identified him as Shane Purcell, minor malcontent, formerly of Macon, Georgia, said from another room.  _ Oh, _ how Lucifer wished he had the time to punish them properly for all their myriad transgressions.

A second man hissed under his breath. “At least we got her back, right, Jack?” he asked, pain and laughter in his voice. Ah, this must be Jeremy Dale, the final member of these infernal outcasts.

All three laughed uproariously; Lucifer started planning out the torments he’d inflict in Hell.  _ Later. _

Jack, the leader, was talking again. “A toast, to fallen brothers.”

“To fallen brothers,” the other two echoed.

Lucifer stepped around a pool table, skirted a pile of motorcycle parts, and entered the room. It was approximately a kitchen, though sparsely furnished, and the three men were sitting around a rickety card table, partway through downing shots of bottom-shelf swill. Wounds studded their exposed flesh, eyes blackened and bruised, and one man, probably Dale, had a hand pressed to the bloody dressing on his side. A pang of pride shot through Lucifer—Mazikeen never went down easy—but it was followed by sorrow. She shouldn’t have been alone.

They froze as they saw him, posed in a painterly tableau, and he smiled. “Hello, murderers.”

Purcell stood immediately, and Dawson reached for a shotgun leaning up against the wall. “The fuck are you doing here?” he asked roughly. Purcell’s gaze flitted between Lucifer and the baseball bat lying on the floor a few feet away.

“Why, to punish you, of course.”

Dawson frowned. “You somebody’s husband?”

He shook his head, letting his grin grow wider. The edge of guilt threatened, but he pushed it down; Mazikeen would never begrudge him the brutal pleasure of revenge.

Dawson scowled. “Doesn’t matter. Get out, or I’ll m—”

“What, you’ll ‘make swiss cheese out of me’?” Lucifer scoffed, stepping forward. “Try to be more original.”

Dawson’s hand clenched tighter on the gun. “Don’t try me.”

Lucifer chuckled. “I’ll do as I li—”

And Dawson pulled the trigger. The bang made the room shudder, and the birdshot tore through Lucifer’s clothes. He sighed, examining the burnt edge of the fabric of his shirt.

“What the  _ Hell?” _ Dawson reloaded his shotgun with shaking hands. The other two men seemed to be unable to move.

“Her name was Mazikeen,” Lucifer said quietly. “And you killed her.”

And he let his eyes burn with fire.

Dawson let off another shot—buckshot, this time—as Purcell dove toward the bat and Dale stood, clenching his teeth against the pain in his side. But Lucifer ignored all of them, grabbing the table and tossing it behind him, blocking easy access to the door.

Purcell cracked him across the back, and he turned enough to throw him against the opposite wall. Dawson scrambled for more ammunition—foolish human thinking slugs might work when buckshot hadn’t left a scratch—and Lucifer fixed his attention, instead, on Dale, whose eyes were darting like a cornered rabbit. His gaze travelled from the man’s broken nose to the distinctly shaped knife wound to the bruises on his knuckles. 

Dale threw an ill-advised punch, and Lucifer caught his wrist, pulling them flush together. He saw Cain in the man’s bleary blue eyes for a moment before he reached for the stab wound, digging his fingers in. Dale shrieked, and Lucifer held him steady, grabbing whatever viscera he could find and wrenching it away. The man sputtered, blood flecking his lips, and Lucifer dropped him to the ground.

Another shot hit him in the side, and he ignored it, turning to Purcell, the one who had dared defame her name. He’d found a knife, it seemed, and tried to cut in up under Lucifer’s ribs, in a familiar motion. But the blade snapped off, and he stared at the handle, dumbfounded.

“What the f—?”

But Lucifer was on him, grabbing him by the throat, slamming him against the wall even as more shots came from behind. “Did you stab  _ her  _ like that?” he hissed, already knowing the answer.

The man couldn’t speak, but it was no matter. Lucifer smiled again, feeling his skin stretch tight. And then he widened it further, letting the skin split, allowing the screaming in his mind to reverberate through his flesh, drawing his prey down into his darkness. His teeth sharpened, and blood ran in rivulets down his cheeks as the muscle was exposed in a simulacrum of his other face, but for an audience of only one. All the flames in his eyes warped into more pointed hellfire, cast as the punishment for this one, singular soul. Tendrils of power crept past the man’s defenses to taste the savor of his worst fears, and Lucifer found his desires as well—cruel things, monstrous things, but also kind and innocuous things as well—twisting them indiscriminately into further torments.

Desire and fear were two sides of the same Pentecostal coin, after all.

When he felt the man’s sanity break, and his shouts turned to mindless screams, he tightened his hand, feeling bone snap beneath his fingers, and the noise died. He dropped Purcell, turning toward the final living soul, the one he suspected had dealt the killing blow. But before he could show Jack Dawson how Hell would take away everything that ever mattered, he heard a voice in his head like a migraine.

_ What’s going on, Lucifer? Linda said… _

Lucifer pushed down Amenadiel’s prayer, stalking toward Dawson again. He held the shotgun up, as if there was anything he could do to truly defend himself, and Lucifer yanked it from his hand, fingers distorting the metal of the barrel.

_ Luci, please, answer me. _

He shook his head roughly, pinning the man against the wall, even as he struggled. He couldn’t stop; if he tried the darkness that was chasing him might catch up, might pin  _ him _ down, might leave him broken on the ground before he could fulfill his purpose. And so he closed his mind to prayer, to the light. None of it mattered, after all. Not now.

“You...you killed them,” Dawson panted, glancing from Lucifer’s face, inches from his, to the rest of the room.

“You killed  _ her,” _ Lucifer snarled. He should have just snapped the vile thing’s neck, but something held him back.

“I’m glad that bitch is dead,” Dawson said, brave in his own grief.

_ Oh, _ that was why he’d hesitated. This human, unlike the others, didn’t feel guilt for what he’d done. Cain’s uncaring eyes flickered in his vision again; he hadn’t been damned either, not until Lucifer had played at his remorse and ensured he go to where he truly deserved.

“What do you desire, Jack?” he asked, voice suddenly silky.

Dawson blinked, and his jaw went slack. “I-I—”

“Come on, then.  _ Tell me.” _

He swallowed roughly. “F-freedom.”

“Oh?” Lucifer tilted his head. “An oldie but a goodie, as they say. Go on, then. Freedom from what?”

Dawson stammered, “From the bounty hunters, the cops. They never stop. Not since I can remember. I-I just want it to be  _ over.” _

Lucifer frowned. “There’s something else, though. What is it?”

“I… It’s not just them,” he whispered.

“Who?” He pushed harder, watching sweat leak from Dawson’s hairline, his lip tremble, his body shake.

“M-m-mom.”

Lucifer blinked. “What, mommy dearest is hunting you down, too, is she?”

“N-no she’s dead.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

Dawson’s hands came up, again, but not to try to push Lucifer away, only to grab at his thinning hair, dig his fingernails into his scalp. “She-she used to—” He inhaled sharply, a haunted look on his face. “I ran from her before I ran from anyone.”

Lucifer’s eye caught, suddenly, on a picture that was still managing to hang onto the wall beside Dawson’s head. It appeared to be several years old, and depicted Dawson, laughing, arm wrapped around a younger man, one with similar facial features.

“Your brother didn’t run quite so fast, did he?” Lucifer asked.

Dawson’s face went pale.

“And you  _ left _ him to her, didn’t you?”

“No, I… I didn’t. I’d  _ never.” _

“I think you did,” Lucifer whispered, leaning closer. “And I think you told yourself it wasn’t your fault, that nothing was. No matter what you did.”

Tears pricked at the man’s eyes. One slipped slowly down his cheek as emotions flickered across his face. He took a deep breath. “But it-it was, wasn’t it?” he asked softly.

Lucifer let his lip curl upward. He didn’t lie, but he didn’t have to give the whole truth, either. Didn’t have to tell this man that this particular thing  _ wasn’t _ his fault. He’d only given him enough truth to hang himself with.

Dawson’s head thudded against the wall. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. Charlie...” He glanced up at the sky. “Overdose, a decade ago. And I...and I—”

He shut his eyes for a moment, penitence sweeping over him. When he opened his eyes they were glassy and resigned. “Do it. I deserve it.”

And now Lucifer didn’t see Cain, but himself, shaking, sobbing, falling into the arms of a mother he’d known would only hurt him.

_ What have I done? _

But then he saw Mazikeen, saw all she had sacrificed for him. What was another sin done in her name? A snap, a crunch, and all was still. He dropped the body to the ground to lie with all the others.

And he’d fulfilled this man’s desires, hadn't he? Jack Dawson would never be chased again, would never have another moment of peace ruined by his sins coming back to haunt him. He'd been caught, now, there would be no peace, and his sins couldn't haunt him when they were all that was real to him.

"You're welcome," he told the corpse harshly, before walking out of the room, slamming the door behind him, wishing the blood on his hands could warm the chill in his soul.

* * *

The blood pool was tacky, and Mazikeen’s body was cold as Lucifer knelt beside her, hands clasped together in some kind of mockery of prayer. But there was no one to pray to, no one he  _ would _ pray to. She deserved better than the half-halting words of a fallen angel.

He had no words at all.

He reached within himself for the guilt he’d been expecting. He had killed humans, again. He had broken his Father’s commandment, again. He had sent a man to Hell who, without his influence, may well have gone to Heaven. There was, quite literally, blood still staining his hands.

But he felt only grief, rage, pain. A hollowness, like some part of him was missing—an emptiness that blazed within him, so different from the absence of the wings. And there were echoes in the void.

_ Gone. Gone. Gone, _ they whispered, voices overlapping like the screams of the damned, but crueler still and not half as sweet. She had been the first person he’d truly trusted, since Heaven, since Mother, since Father.

He had saved her from the wastelands, but she had saved him, from an abandonment he hadn’t even understood. From the fear that echoed in his bones—that there was no one left in the universe who cared. And she  _ had _ cared. She hadn’t known how to express it and neither had he. And so they’d shown it in what ways they had.

What words forever left unspoken had he branded in the sinew of her face, the strength of her limbs, the gracefulness of her body?

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then smoothed it back against her cheek. She had always been wiser than he—at least, in the ways that truly mattered. His fingers lingered on the ravaged side of her face, those parts she had hidden away from everyone, even him.

_ Keep the face, _ he’d told her once, such a long time ago now. And here, in her death, she was whole.

He’d never cared about dead flesh before. But humans were simply vessels for less than holy light. This  _ was  _ Mazikeen. Was every part of her but the heat in her flesh, the fire in her blood, the sparks in her brain.

He had no sway over her essence—he never had. She was always herself, fully, completely.

And now she was gone.

And he was still here.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: Implied/referenced child abuse, references to suicide


End file.
